You Without Me
by kkolmakov
Summary: Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror has never taken a wife, as he is harbouring a secret: in his dreams he sees a woman who is no match for the King of the Dwarves - and the perfect beloved for him. The Quest comes, and then the Battle, and he lives, and hopes, but destiny never plays by rules. [ThorinxOC] A pastiche to my other stories, but can be read independently.
1. Prologue

**A/N: This is a little something that just floated into my mind yesterday. It will be a short story, and it is more of a "poem" than a story with a plot. It has been inspired by my own ongoing story _Me Without You,_ and will probably make more sense to you, my dearest reader, if you read my other stories, especially the ones in Timeline #1 and _Me Without You._ Still, I hope you enjoy :)**

 **Also, I know what happens next, and there is a 'next' so don't throw veggies at me just yet :) But I don't know how the story ends, I'll see how you react to it, my lovelies ;)**

* * *

PROLOGUE

* * *

Thorin woke up, and in a habitual gesture he pushed his right hand along the sheets to his wife's half of the bed. His fingertips slid through emptiness and bumped into the corner of his own pillow. As soon as his mind was a bit more awake, he remembered he had no wife. He rolled on his back, without opening his eyes. The dream was still creeping in the corners of his mind, and in a familiar trick he didn't chase it. He let it brush at the edges of his mind, in all its warmth and golden glow. _My husband, my King, my love..._ The voice melodic and tender, teasing lilt, confident undertone... All so kindred, and familiar... He took a slow breath in, dreaming of fragrance of lilacs and knowing none of it was in the air of the cold room in the inn in Bree.

The harsh reality was taking its place, and he stirred and opened his eyes. Some foreign weight lay on his chest, and his hand flew to it. It wasn't the key to Erebor, which would take this spot in a few moons, when the Grey Wizard were to give it to him in the house of Bilbo Baggins. It was the burden of the quest that now lay on him.

* * *

The house of the Hobbit had finally quieted, his companions having settled in their beds, and the fire put out in the fireplace. Thorin lay in the bed in one of the many guest rooms. It was soft, he had quite forgotten the comfort and ease of an established household, and the dreams were brighter and so much more vivid this time.

 _A small strong hand brushed at his sternum, and then the fingertips playfully ran up his neck._

 _"You need to shave, my King..."_

 _He smiled softly, and rolled on his side, wrapping his arm around her supple body. Another set of fingers tangled in his hair._

 _"You are growing old, husband of mine. Look at all this silver." He snorted, and pulled her even closer._

 _"Impudent woman..."_

He woke up just after dawn, and the fresh smell of dew on the grasses and trees outside the house carried through the window of his room. He remembered the dream from last night, just like he always remembered them in the morning. As much as he was full of anticipation to start their journey to the Lonely Mountain, he allowed himself a few minutes of idleness under the light soft duvet of the Hobbit's house.

This night she was so much more of flesh, he could almost feel her under his fingers, his nose full of her fragrance. He had seen her hundreds of times but this night even the freckles on her skin were more clear. As if the veil that hid her from him all these years was thinner... _My love, my husband, my heart... Thorin..._

* * *

 _He remembers that first dream. He is half battle age, not yet a man but not a child either. He spends a day in training with Dwalin, and falls into his bed exhausted._

 _That first night all he sees is a woman sitting by the window, her back to him. The shutters are open, and the sunlight is streaming into the room, lighting her up. He can see bright copper hair scattered on her shoulders, and a brush in a half raised hand. She doesn't turn this time..._

 _He only remembers this dream when she starts coming more often. The first few years he is worried and embarrassed by these dreams. She is of Men, and it is unheard of for a Dwarven prince to have such fantasies._

 _Quite soon they become of the lecherous manner, and he is mortified. Young men around him talk about it more and more, in hushed voices, in ambiguous words, but everyone thinks of such matters. Then the first one out of his circle marries. It is Gloin, and when too much ale has been drunk, others joke. It is never malicious or inappropriate, but they are Dwarves, there is fire burning in their veins, and Thorin and others look, and wonder, and look forward to their own nights._

 _She comes more and more often, he sees her in his arms, in a wide bed of the most unusual kind. There is a green canopy above them, and the bedposts are carved to look like large branches. It is an oaktree, and there is a carving on the bedrest, of a small bird sitting in the foliage._

 _Wren..._

 _He cannot remember if she ever tells him her name, or it just comes to him, but it is. His little bird..._

 _He is expected to start looking. His Father starts throwing hints, Balin mentions names and family trees. He has no excuse, but he cannot bring himself to even consider it. By then it has been a few years of finding her in his dreams, of loving her and being loved by her..._

 _At the very beginning he realised that though the dreams he sees seem to be frozen in time - it is almost as if it were the same day and the same night in them - he can talk to her. When he is young, he hardly does. Their bodies intertwine, and it is ardent, and fiery, and he cannot get enough of her fervour for him._

 _When the dragon attacks, and moons after it, the smell of burnt flesh and the screams of his dying kin fill his mind and his senses at night, he presses her into him, shaking and hiding his pain. He breaks quite quickly, he is young, and King or not, he just cannot hold it together anymore. He is crying in her arms, and strong hands are caressing him, fingers run his features. And she listens._

 _They build the life in the Blue Mountains, and he thinks he has settled into it. There are talks, that he should certainly find a wife, since there are so fewer Khazad left, but then the war starts and the thought is forgotten._

 _The battle takes his grandfather, his brother, and his father away, and Dis is soon left a widow. He watches after her sons, and it is almost enough._

 _He thinks he sometimes hears children's laughter somewhere at the back, in the dreams that he has, but he is almost afraid to investigate. She is enough._

* * *

The rain poured, slashing in sheets outside the cave, and Thorin closed his eyes. It was cold, he hadn't allowed any fire. He could hear his company stir and groan in their sleep, and then he fell into worrisome slumber.

 _Her amber coloured eyes are right in front of him._

 _"You look tired, my King. You need to care for your heath better. You don't want to leave Erebor kingless, do you, my heart?"_

 _She tut-tuts, and he feels her knead the tired muscles in his back and shoulders. He groans from pleasure, mostly from the feeling of her tiny weight on his lower back. She is straddling him, and he feels tension leave his body._

And then he heard the noise, and his eyes flew open, and they were falling into the Goblin caves, and he thought he heard her panicked scream in his ears.

* * *

He had no dreams of her in his dragon sickness. Those were the only few days in his life when he didn't feel her presence, didn't feel like he carried something in him, that strange warm glow.

And then the battle started, and Orcs spilled onto the Erebor Valley, and he fought, and bled, and fell...

* * *

 _"Wake up, Thorin!" Her voice is enraged. They have never fought before. Well, there have been misunderstandings, but what marriage has none?_

 _"Wake up, you stubborn, cantankerous, impossible Dwarf!" He feels her hands on his shoulders, and she gives him a shake. He knows how strong she is despite the small frame and her thinness. "Get up! Don't you dare giving up! Fight!"_

Another arrow pierces his body, and for the first time in his life he hears her voice in his awaken state.

 _"Fight, you fool! Get up!"_

He does, and he slashes and thrusts, and enemies fall, but there are too many of them... His blood is pouring on the ground. He moves from under a blow of another monster, and he can see a wide strip of blood he left behind him on the dried up grass and mud. He is growing weak, and she seems to grow more and more furious with him.

 _"Don't you dare leaving me alone, Thorin, son of Thrain! Don't leave my children without a father! If you do not give your everything to it right now, I will whoop your glorious royal backside!"_

He fights and gives it his everything...

He falls, nothing left in him...

* * *

 _You cannot go now. You promised. You didn't know it yourself, but your whole life is a promise to me. Your breath, your heartbeat, your voice, your pain... All of it is the song I can hear, and my song answers yours._

 _Wake up, Thorin, son of Thrain._

* * *

Thorin was dying in the healer's tent, and he accepted it. He forgave the Hobbit's betrayal and said goodbye to his people. He was so tired that he almost felt no pain. He felt nothing really.

Sometimes he would fall into half sleep, half delirium, and she finally came.

 _The dream was no different from any other. They lay in their oaken bed, and he could feel all her cool, fluid body stretched along his. Her fingers traced some patterns on his chest, and then she suddenly chuckled._

 _"Remember how we met?" He hummed agreeing. His eyes were closed, and he felt a smile to tug at the corners of his lips. She shifted, moved higher, and he felt soft lips pressed to his cheek. "When was it? Two, three years after the Battle of the Five Armies? I sneaked into Erebor out of curiosity, and you caught me wandering Inner Halls."_

 _"In the Northern passage, in the Council Hall," he agreed._

 _"Aye," she giggled. "You were so grumpy then. What are you doing in my halls, you asked. And frowned. Oh that frown..." She laughed, and the tip of her finger brushed at his brows. He could not suppress a smile anymore, and he peeked at her with one eye. Her turn up nose twitched, peppered with bright orange freckles._

 _"I found you so enticing then," she drew out, and his eyes flew open, and he cocked one brow. "So intimidating, so imperious, and that dark blue doublet..." She sighed theatrically, and he decided that was enough mockery for one night. The gentle smack he gave her pert buttock was loud. She yelped, fully insincerely, and they rolled with laughter, kissing and caressing each other._

And Thorin knew he would not die in this battle.

* * *

Years passed by, Erebor had been restored, and Thorin grew into the habit of taking daily walks in the Northern passage.

As well as sending one or two of his scouts, once a moon or so, to Dale to find out whether a red haired healer had already come to service in the city infirmary.

She never did.

Five years after the Battle passed, and Thorin grew restless and irritable. All those years ago, when she first appeared in his dreams, he thought himself mawkish and young and impressionable. With years he accepted his dreams. And now that the time came, he acted.

And yet she never came.

* * *

He knew everything about her. At least as much as a husband can know about his wife of several decades.

He broke down after six years of waiting and went to search for her. None of the traces he thought he'd find were there. She had never served in Gondor, and her former lover had never heard of her. She never travelled to Dale. The wine girl, with enticing curves and merry laughter, whom he only knew of by name, and heard so much about, had never had a red haired friend.

* * *

His dreams turned out to be just dreams, and his heart felt empty and aching.

* * *

 **To be continued...**

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 **CONVINCE ME THE WINTER IS OVER**

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 **Available on Amazon in Kindle and Paper!**

* * *

 ** _Summary:_**

 _Renee Miller is a reclusive web designer who, after several hours of delirium from flu, wakes up to find a stranger in boxer briefs standing in her bathroom._

 _John is an archaeologist who finds himself stuck in a stranger's flat in a snowstorm._

 _Frozen in her neat and clean world of highly functional anxieties and her history of childhood trauma, Renee is perhaps the worst possible host for her flatmate's boyfriend's colleague. Yet, while the fervent gush of life that is John Greaves disrupts her carefully guarded existence, Renee finds herself gradually yearning for more._

 _Is John the first breath of Spring in her frigid world?_


	2. Blood and Dirt

Another two years passed, and on a gloomy mid-November day, in the company of Dwalin and four guards, Thorin was returning from a scouting expedition. Half frozen mud squelched under the hooves of their ponies, small patches of first snow scattered on the knolls and dried grasses. They treaded through the swamps to the East from River Running, when they heard the noise of a combat. The moors were still infested by Orcs, much less numerous these years, but much more reckless and dangerous.

A small group of men were fighting off a band of the monsters much larger than their small company, and Thorin's guards rushed ahead. They had been feeling rusty in the prosperous years of late, craving a fight, and Thorin saw a bloodthirsty, pleased grin on Dwalin's face.

Later Thorin would not be able to remember what happened at the beginning of the fight, what he felt, or thought, or did. A bevy of quails shot into the grey low sky, with a flutter of wings, and he saw her broken body sliding into the black swamp water, pushed off an Orc blade and down from the small hillock. As if the brightest explosion of flashfire flooded his mind. He screamed, an animalistic scream of pain, and leaped toward her.

"No, no, no, no..." He seemed to be incapable of any other words, any other thoughts. Orcrist swooshed through the air. He as much as slashed the nearest Orc in half, hacking the next one diagonally from shoulder all the way down to the waist, and then another was in his way, and it lost first an arm, and then the head, and Thorin ran and screamed.

"Dwalin! Ikhsigab!"

The tattooed warrior obeyed, and rushed to him, and shielded him, while Thorin fell on his knees, grabbed her under her arms, and pulled her on the solid ground. The bottom half of her body had sunk into the muddy slush, and the cloak was drenched, dragging her down.

His mind thrashed, grasping at unimportant details, jumping in astoundment from the fact of how correct his dreams were, to how different she looked. She was dressed in Rohirrim clothes, fiery locks scattered on the ground around her head, dirty and soaked in blood and swamp water, and he jerked her doublet open, and saw a gaping wound on her side. He pressed his palms over it. She was pale, eyes were closed, and he could not breathe. He noticed a string with a golden ring on her neck, a long white scar on her cheekbone, and a scabbard on her belt. The sword probably slipped out of her hand and sank, he thought, and then he growled at himself, for untimely thoughts, and for panic, and for the fact that she was dying in his arms.

"No, no, no, no… not now, not like this…" he kept on mumbling.

He looked up and saw that the Orcs had been disposed of. He didn't even know which one of the monsters put its wide jagged blade through her small body. The wound was fatal, he had seen enough of them to know, and he prayed to Mahal, and felt hot tears run his cheeks.

There were just four Men still standing after the fight, and one them ran up to Thorin.

"Wren!" the man gasped, and Thorin lifted his eyes. The Rohirrim was grey-haired, his clothes dirty and in disarray. He was cradling his left arm close to his body. Blood dripped off his fingers, clearly seeping from the wound on his upper arm. He dropped on the ground, and stretched his hand toward the unmoving body in Thorin's arms, and Thorin pressed the young woman closer to himself.

"Is she?.." The man's voice broke, and his eyes roamed the girl's white face.

Thorin looked down. There was no breath trembling on her lips, and he sobbed and pressed his face into her neck. Everything was familiar, he suddenly realised; and the thought slashed across his heart in unimaginable wave of pain. The weight of her slack body in his arms, the smooth skin of the pale throat, the strands of the coppered gold...

* * *

 _He remembers a dream. They are lying in their oaken bed. She is stretched on her stomach, and he is idly playing with her curl in his fingers._

 _"When I was a girl, other children threw dirt at me... Men do not like gingers," she mutters, and he throws a surprised look to her. "I'm glad the Khazad care little."_

 _"For the Khazad this colour is quite precious," he tries to reassure, and she throws an impish look to him over her shoulder._

 _"It unfortunately is accompanied by these pests." She points at the bridge of her delicate nose with the tip of her finger. He guffaws._

 _"What you call pests, the Khazad call orzad galimi, 'the dust of the sun gleam.'_

 _He leans in and presses his lips to her smooth shoulder, also peppered by the golden specks. "Exquisite..."_

 _"You, my lord, are quite a sweet talk..." she giggles, and a pair of cool elegant arms wraps around his neck._

* * *

"Please, please, no..." he was loudly sobbing into her skin. "Please... Come back... Not now..."

"Wren... Daughter of mine..." the man whispered nearby, and Thorin shuddered. The Wren he had known in his dreams had no kin, and yet he knew that he held now in his arms the very same woman.

"Thorin..." Dwalin's voice came from above. The warrior wasn't able to hide the surprise in his tone, and Thorin shook his head. He moved away and looked into her wan face.

The cheekbones were high, the same slanted eyes, thick black lashes lying under them, the narrow bridge of a turned up nose... There was no life, no light in her, just a wax mask of the one he had loved for as long as he remembered, and he lifted his face and screamed into the sky in helpless rage.

And then warmth bloomed in the circled of his arms, and he saw some mesmerizing golden glow bloom around the body he cradled in his arms. It seemed to sprout from where his skin was pressed to hers, and the ribbons of the magic slithered and weaved, and opened around her body in an astonishing blossom. Dwalin took a few terrified steps back, and the man who called her his daughter scampered backwards, and the woman in Thorin's arms took a large loud gulp of air. Thorin saw in awe how wherever their skin was bare, it seemed that some golden dust covered it, and he jerked his glove off with his teeth and pressed his palm into her side, over the wound, and her body arched, and lips, which were growing redder and redder with each moment, parted, and she inhaled deeply.

"What sorcery is this?" the man rasped, but Thorin cared not.

He was intently watching, hoping, and then the lashes finally fluttered, and the amber coloured eyes opened.

"Wren..." he breathed out.

"What?.." she whispered, and he pushed hair off her face, cupped her jaw, and made a few comforting noises. She lay on his lap, supported by his other arm, and he could not believe it, his hand quickly examined her half healed side, and he felt even breath, and pressed fingers to the heartbeat on her neck. It took so much effort to stop himself from squeezing her tightly, just to make sure she was here.

"You were wounded... It is alright now, Wren..." he pushed himself to speak, and she moaned, and one hand weakly rose, and lay over her abdomen.

"I do not... remember..." And then her eyes widened. "The Orc... It came from behind me... And..."

"It is over now, it is..." he reassured her, and stroked her cheek. "You are safe now..." She stirred, but he pressed his hand into her shoulder, hindering her. She was still pallid, and she finally blinked, and their eyes met.

His heart skipped a beat, and he just could not stop drinking in her features. She frowned, her eyes studied his face, blush spilling on the cheekbones, and she asked, "Who are you?"

* * *

 **To be continued...**

* * *

 ****PLEASE, CONSIDER SUPPORTING THE AUTHOR ON ****

* * *

 **My blog: kolmakov dot ca**

{two romance webserials, both inspired by my writing here}

 **Facebook: Katya Kolmakov**

 **JukePop: Katya Kolmakov**

{ _Blind Carnival_ initially written here & _Ani_ my first independent fantasy story}

 **Twitter: katyakolmakov**

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* * *

 **My book on Amazon!**

 **CONVINCE ME THE WINTER IS OVER**

 **{my first novel**

 **inspired by the story initially written here}**

 **Available on Amazon in Kindle and Paper!**

* * *

 ** _Summary:_**

 _Renee Miller is a reclusive web designer who, after several hours of delirium from flu, wakes up to find a stranger in boxer briefs standing in her bathroom._

 _John is an archaeologist who finds himself stuck in a stranger's flat in a snowstorm._

 _Frozen in her neat and clean world of highly functional anxieties and her history of childhood trauma, Renee is perhaps the worst possible host for her flatmate's boyfriend's colleague. Yet, while the fervent gush of life that is John Greaves disrupts her carefully guarded existence, Renee finds herself gradually yearning for more._

 _Is John the first breath of Spring in her frigid world?_


	3. Fire and Ashes

**A/N: If you do that sort of thing, look up Julio Iglesias' song** _ **La Carretera II.**_ **That's what I listened to when writing this chapter, and I find it fitting.**

* * *

The body of Wren's betrothed is burning with eight others on the funeral pyre. The five members of the merchant company, who are still alive, are standing, holding sage branches in their hands; Wren is supported by the man who calls himself her father. The Dwarves are standing at a respectful distance, their heads lowered, sharing the mourning any warrior is familiar with - the pain and loss of saying farewell to the fallen comrades. Thorin throws looks at the redhead's face. It is as if etched in marble, pale and cold, not a single tear runs her cheek. He knows her well - or at least he still cannot bring himself to stop thinking thus - this reserved unreadable expression on her face is the reflection of the greatest of pains. His hands are trembling, and he clenches the haft of his long battle axe that he is leaning on.

After there's nothing but ashes left, the five Men slowly start walking towards Dale. There's a day of travel left. They were returning from the Iron Hills, after selling their furs, and their pouches are full of the gold and gems of Dain Ironfoot's Khazad.

The man who calls himself Wren's father has thanked Thorin for saving his men - he is the owner of the boat that had sunk in River Running three days ago, when they were ambushed by the first gang of Orcs. They had fought them off, having lost half of their guard, and then they decided to head to Dale, and the second attack followed.

The man is large, wide, the same proportion of a body as the Dwarves. His bushy hair is white. He gives Thorin grateful, yet suspicious looks. He gives a low bow thanking the King for the 'Dwarven magic' that saved his daughter's life. Thorin is silent, he throws a look at Wren who is sitting on a small hillock to the side. She is bundled in furs and cloaks, and her unseeing eyes are fixed on the white ashes left after the pyre.

* * *

Their small procession reaches Dale, and Thorin offers to accompany them to the infirmary. Seeing her when she is seated on a cot and a healer approaches her feels like a dream. But not one of his former dreams. More of a convoluted nightmare, where everything is familiar but nothing is but an illusion, and everyone is a changeling. They have not talked since she asked for his name, her body limp in his arms, and he answered, "Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror."

He steps at the backyard on the infirmary, and gathers lungfuls of cold harsh air.

"Who is she, Thorin?" Dwalin's voice comes from behind, and Thorin doesn't turn. He's looking at the cold grey sky. He just doesn't have an answer to this question.

He can't leave the city either. He has never in his life felt so lost, confused, helpless…

Dwalin stands behind him for a few minutes, and then with a grumble he disappears inside the infirmary again. In Thorin's mind words and thoughts swirl, what to say, how to approach… What can he say, after all? That he knows her? That he loves her? There isn't a single phrase that would sound sane, and yet he knows it is her who was sitting on that cot in the infirmary that used to be hers.

Before he left the solar, he threw a look at her - he cannot stop looking at her face - and then he was turning, and his eyes slid lower, and he saw the blood soaked undertunic, in the opened doublet, and the wound, hastily bandaged on the swamps.

Thorin knows he has no magic.

* * *

" _Show me the trick, my heart." He's cajoling, kissing her stomach, and she pouts._

" _I am not a popper, Thorin. It's not as if you can pull a string, and I will spit sparks..." He guffaws, and she huffs and puffs, but sits up and opens her palm. Nothing happens, and he laughs louder. "You are interrupting me!" Her voice is full of righteous indignation. "I need to focus!"_

" _Do you now?" he asks impishly, and she puffs more air and scrunches her nose._

 _She tries again, snapping her fingers, clapping her hands, and eventually gives up, and her hands fall passively on her lap._

" _I just could never understand my magic, Thorin. I wonder what's the point of it even!" She twitches her nose. "It flares, it makes sparks, shakes glasses in the pantry, but there's no rhyme or reason, and honestly speaking, so little merit in it!"_

 _He wraps his arms around her and topples her on the bed._

" _Perhaps it serves some purpose..." His tone is mollifying, and she pouts again._

" _Do not patronise me, my King..."_

* * *

They stay in Dale for two days. Thorin is still as if frozen in complete irresolution. He can't leave, he stays in a room in an inn, and he waits. Dwalin doesn't ask, but it certainly doesn't look like an official visit.

Thorin receives a note, and recognises her handwriting. Neat round letters, impeccable phrasing, she is asking for the honour of seeing the King of the Khazad privately.

He comes to the infirmary, withstanding the looks from the healers and patients, he marches through the halls, and pushes the door of her solar open. Her father gets up from a chair in the corner, and they have a quick but heated whispered discussion. The man gives Thorin a bow, throws a frowned look at the redhead, and leaves.

Thorin comes closer. She's pale, but the cheeks are burning feverishly. He's immediately worried that the wound's been infected.

"How are you faring… my lady?" He stumbles over the moniker. Her eyes are roaming his face.

"I will soon be well. Please, sit, my lord." He recognises the decorous, yet imperious tone.

Everything is the same, and everything is different. He notices that she seems less frail, more robust than the woman in his dreams. He remembers the scabbard on her belt. There are callouses on her hand, from a sword and from a bow, but the fidgeting with the corner of a quilt is familiar. He recognises the hands, the long, strong fingers. He can almost feel them on his skin, and he forces himself to lift his eyes and meet hers.

"I have a favour to ask, my lord." Her voice is trembling. He recognises the freckles on the bridge of her nose. He can almost remember the taste of her skin. "I know you haven't disclosed to my father that the magic that healed me was foreign to you… And I'm begging you to remain silent."

He creases his brow, not understanding.

"I have it..." Her voice breaks, and she takes a shuddered breath in. "Since I was a child, I've had it, and I'm hiding it… I do not wish to be seen as an aberration."

"What do you do, my lady?" he blurts out, and she blinks not understanding the leap his mind has made. Wren of his dreams used her magic to talk to the unborn babes in mothers' wombs. This one hides and is ashamed of her gift.

"I am a wine girl, my lord," she lies.

"It's a lie, my lady. These are not the hands of a woman tending to laundry and pots." He feels anger rising. And then she chews at her bottom lip, and his heart clenches painfully in the recognition of the gesture.

"I am good with sword and bow… Though, clearly I wasn't good enough in that fight." He recognises the self-deprecating sarcasm as well. "Father says it's not appropriate for woman to fight. I do tend to laundry and the pots, though. I am quite a cook."

She suddenly smiles, just a bit, with the curved corner of her wide red mouth, and the world sways. For a moment, it is her, the woman he loves, and he fists his hands.

And then she starts twirling the golden ring, hanging on a string around her neck, and it's clearly a habitual gesture, and then she notices it herself, and her face blanches.

He remembers the noble profile of the man. She sat above his body, unmoving, for more than an hour, while others were gathering wood for the pyres. It was hard to see under the blood and the dirt, but the man seemed to have had an attractive face, long nose, clearly of Gondorian blood, dark curls scattered on the muddy grass. She cupped his face, and her thumb brushed at the corner of his lips.

She pushes the ring under the collar of her tunic, and he understands that she wants him to leave the room.

He cannot.

She is his wife, his life, his heart. Even in the death of another, he wants to be there for her. To pick up her hand, to press it to his lips, to let her share the pain… She is his heart, the mother of his children, whose laughter he sometimes heard in his dreams, his Wren…

The ache is tearing at his heart, and he wonders what he can even say…

* * *

 **To be continued...**

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 ****PLEASE, CONSIDER SUPPORTING THE AUTHOR ON DOT COM!****

* * *

 **My blog: kolmakov dot ca**

{two romance webserials, both inspired by my writing here}

 **Facebook: Katya Kolmakov**

 **JukePop: Katya Kolmakov**

{ _Blind Carnival_ initially written here & _Ani_ my first independent fantasy story}

 **Twitter: katyakolmakov**

 **Instagram: kkolmakov**

 **Tumblr: kkolmakov-thorin-ff**

 **Pinterest: Katya Kolmakov**

 **DevianArt: kkolmakov**

* * *

 **My book on Amazon!**

 **CONVINCE ME THE WINTER IS OVER**

 **{my first novel**

 **inspired by the story initially written here}**

 **Available on Amazon in Kindle and Paper!**

* * *

 ** _Summary:_**

 _Renee Miller is a reclusive web designer who, after several hours of delirium from flu, wakes up to find a stranger in boxer briefs standing in her bathroom._

 _John is an archaeologist who finds himself stuck in a stranger's flat in a snowstorm._

 _Frozen in her neat and clean world of highly functional anxieties and her history of childhood trauma, Renee is perhaps the worst possible host for her flatmate's boyfriend's colleague. Yet, while the fervent gush of life that is John Greaves disrupts her carefully guarded existence, Renee finds herself gradually yearning for more._

 _Is John the first breath of Spring in her frigid world?_


	4. Blow and Riposte

**A/N: I'm running a fever, and sipping ginger tea. That's what I felt was to happen next. Let me know what you think, me lovelies…**

 **For the sake of allowing this story to flow organically, I've even decided to sacrifice my OCD induced love for same size chapters.**

* * *

"Do you believe in prophetic dreams, my lady?" Thorin asked raspily, and he saw her body shudder, and she shifted her unusual eyes onto him. She was silent for an instant, and then he saw her jaw set stubbornly.

"No. Dreams are just dreams."

She'd lied. He could see, and he moved closer, seeking a crack in her armour, craving her to let him in.

"Do not deceive me, Wren. I know when you are lying."

Her face grew aghast. He realised he'd never before pronounced her name out loud. She creased her brow.

"You are forgetting yourself, my lord. Do not think that your stature gives you the permission to speak to me in such free manner..."

"I know you, Wren." The careless words slipped off his lips, but he saw she was lying. He didn't want to let the hope bloom, but his heart beat painfully. "I have..."

"Do not presume!" she suddenly raised her voice. "Do not..." Her voice broke, and he saw her hands curl around fistfuls of the covers.

"Wren, your magic… It could have given you dreams..."

"They were a lie!" she screamed into his face, and tears burst out of her eyes. Thorin winced away. "They promised me… All those dreams! I saw the future in them, with Amrod, and the children, and the house, and the ash tree!.. And then he died, and left me alone!" A sob wrecked her body, and she hid behind her shaking hands. "I had told him of them… And he laughed at me… And said they were just dreams, but they did not feel this way! They didn't!" He watched in terror her shoulders shake. "They didn't… And he told me of his, and they were different… A daughter, one daughter, with my hair, and a different house, in Ithilien, not Gondor, and we agreed they were just dreams… Just dreams..." She shook her head without taking hands off her face.

Thorin rose on his feet and left the room without a single word. At the moment he couldn't straighten his mind enough to comprehend what she told him.

* * *

" _Do you feel sometimes that you were destined to have another life?" Wren asks, her fists stacked one on another, her chin resting on them. She's stretched on him, and her little toes are tickling his foot. He opens one eye._

" _No. I am a man, it is a thought too complicated for my limited mind." He's jesting, and she snorts._

" _I sometimes think that I was..." Her face is suddenly serious, and he peers into her features, sensing her change of mood. "It is just so bizarre, you and I… Erebor..."_

" _I think we are where we belong," he says, and brushes his palm along her silky narrow back, to the perky bottom under the covers and furs._

" _Perhaps," she agrees, but he knows she's not disclosing everything. He feels jealous, and possessive, but he knows she will stay. She is his._

 _And after all, it's nothing but a dream…_

* * *

He sits through the night, in the room in the inn three streets away from the infirmary.

Everything has changed, but it might still be the same. Even if suddenly his dreams became less of a wonder, she's still his Wren. He wakes up Dwalin and the guard, goes down to the stables, and returns to Erebor. He goes straight into his sister's rooms and tells her everything.

It is the first time he speaks of his dreams. His tone is monotonous. It's not a lament of a maudlin weakling, he is a man of action. He is gathering his forces.

Dis is crying. He tells her of how Wren's voice made him fight harder, in that final battle at the foot of the Lonely Mountain, how her will made him get up and how it allowed him to save the lives of Dis' sons. He tells that he was dying on the healer's tent, and the promise of Wren's love didn't let him cross into Indendum. Dis wipes her tears, she is the daughter of Thrain, son of Thorin, and asks, "What do you need from me?"

* * *

Thorin doesn't know what Dis and Wren talk about. His sister leaves the next morning, with guards, her face hidden under a low hood of her cloak, and returns after dinner. Her face is melancholic.

Thorin has been pacing his study the whole time. The princess comes in and sits in a chair across his desk.

"You will have to wait. To even speak to her. She is in mourning, and behaving disrespectfully will push her away. She is too noble and willful."

"How long?" Thorin asks.

"Give her a year."

Thorin wants to scream that he has very few of those left, his hair is full of silver, but he nods and then leans in and kisses his sister's cheek.

"Akhminruki astû, Dis." _My deepest gratitude._

She gives him a sad smile.

He's a cunning politician, and he writes Wren a letter. He is shamelessly using the knowledge of her character, and she responds with a promise to think of him.

He rules Erebor and waits.


	5. A Long Awaited Visit

Thirteen months pass, and she arrives to Erebor. He receives a letter from her months earlier, informing him of her visit. He's preparing. The day is cold, Thorin is standing in the open courtyard, by the entrance gate, snowflakes softly falling on the cobblestone. The doors open, and her company rides into. She came with her father, and two more Men. They are tall, same build, and Thorin understands they are her brothers. A courtier comes up to her, picks up the reins, and she dismounts. There's a travelling cloak on her, hiding her form, and she pushes the hood off her head.

There are white streaks in her hair, two bright snowy ribbons on the sides of her face. Thorin steps ahead, Balin and Dwalin behind him, and the three Dwarves bow. The Men return the gesture awkwardly.

Everyone is invited to freshen up after the road, but Wren's Father politely declines. They had spent the previous day in Dale, they are not even hungry, he says. Wren interrupts, saying that a meal with wine would be most welcome. She's standing behind her father, and he throws her a confused look over his shoulder. Unlike others, Thorin isn't surprised. She has always been a good diplomat. At least, he knows it's in her nature. Her Father has just insulted the hospitality of the Dwarves, and she corrected it.

The Men are invited in the guest parlours. Thorin feels that accepting them in the Royal Halls would be too much pressure, and he's right. After some ale and roasted lamb, the Men feel freer. Balin is there to lead a light conversation that would be natural for both sides, and he succeeds. Trade and weather are discussed, Wren's Father and brothers soon forget to be cautious in their words, the conversation flows. Thorin is quiet, he isn't even drinking, just lifting the goblet to his lips. Wren eats. She seems pale and somewhat thinned, as if after many moons of sickness.

Thorin has timed the visit perfectly. After half an hour, Dis comes in the room, almost as if by accident. Everyone gets up. Wren's face lights with sincere joy. Dis comes up to her, and the women link their hands.

"Come, Wren, let us talk."

The Men who have bowed in awe and respect to the regally looking Princess watch Wren's supple figure and the intimidating Dwarven Dame dressed in black disappear behind the doors into the Inner Halls. Dwalin, who has been instructed by Balin, raises the question of the Orc packs allegedly roaming the lands to the North of Gondor, and the discussion becomes heated, yet friendly.

The Men almost don't notice when Thorin rises and slips out of the room.

* * *

He finds Dis and Wren sitting on a balcony, on a low bench. Thorin is still surprised to see how everything in Erebor fits Wren, in size and seemingly in spirit. She lifts her eyes at him, and he notices the red. Both of them had been crying. He halts in the doors, waiting for an invitation or a refusal, and Dis wipes her eyes with a lace handkerchief and rises.

"Remember, you promised, Wren," she softly speaks to the redhead on the bench, and Wren nods.

Dis leaves, her hand brushing on Thorin's forearm when she's passing him. He catches her eyes for an instant, and she slightly shakes her head. He knows she tells him to be restrained.

Wren is sitting, looking at her hands, fingers locked on her lap. He sits near her, keeping silent, letting her speak first.

The silence stretches, but he knows her. She's willful, practical, and this Wren, the woman sitting near him, her knuckles white, lips pressed in a stern line, the familiar aroma of lilacs coming from her hair - she is like more than any.

"Your sister told me about your dreams, all those moons ago. When we met for the first time." Her voice is even, and he knows she's studying his face. He nods, looking straight ahead. He hides his emotions, the tremour in his hands, the painfully beating heart. He lets her speak, and he listens.

"I have a daughter," she says, and his head whips. There's challenge in her eyes.

"I loved my betrothed, and I… We didn't wait until the wedding. She is seven months old, she is in Dale with my mother. My family… They lied to everyone that Amrod and I married on the road, that Mira was his legitimate daughter. But he was from a rich and noble family, and they… They do not accept us, Mira and me. They say I carried her from someone else, and rumours started, and… I am no longer welcome in Ithilien." Her tone is still unemotional, but he can see the pain and struggle that she's been carrying in her heart this whole time and that have been eating at her, sliver by sliver every day.

"My family trades in furs, lots of their business is with the Dwarves of Iron Hills, and people of Esgaroth and Dale, so my mother and I will now reside in Dale."

Her eyes are burning, and he realises what she is saying.

"You didn't come here for me..." His voice is hollow.

"No, I did not." She jerks her chin up. "Dale is a prosperous town, we will be happy here. And we do not wish to be disturbed."

Her words are cold and slash him like a blade. He wants to scream, and rage, but he's too proud. And he knows it'll yield no result. Not with her.

"Disturbing you was never among my intentions, my lady."

He looks at her attentively, and she meets his eyes with the familiar directness.

He knows her, though. He sees that she is tired, tired of fighting, and of being scared, and not knowing what is to happen to her and her child. He knows how protective and devoted she is.

He also sees that she thinks this conversation is over. He thinks he hasn't tried all strategies yet.

"What did Dis tell you?"

She sighs.

"That you had prophetic dreams about me. That you saw a future for us, together. But..." Of course she has something to add, he bitterly thinks. She always does. "Firstly, my life is the best proof that prophetic dreams are nothing but an illusion, and a harmful one. And secondly, yours were even less truthful that any of the lies that I or Amrod had been shown. I am of Men, you are a Dwarven King."

It doesn't even sound as if she's trying to convince herself. She truly believes it. There's nothing to be done.

She rises, and he heavily gets up on his feet. Suddenly everything aches, the old wounds, and the back that had slept on cold ground through all these years. She turns to him, cold polite expression on her face, clearly preparing to bow to him, and suddenly he just doesn't want to devise, scheme, and strategise. He is in pain, his heart is sore, and he speaks openly.

"Wren, I… I know that… I understand..." He starts a sentence after a sentence and abandons the thoughts before he can pronounce them, because they will not make any difference. There is no hope, and no right words, and he throws all caution aside. "I'm asking you for a favour. I know you have a compassionate heart, and I appeal to it. I have no right, but I just do."

She gives him a sideways glance.

"I am asking for one kiss."

Her face is momentarily shocked, then aghast, and she takes a step away from him. Somewhere in his mind, a memory stirrs, of her passion, and libidinousness, and her words…

* * *

 _She's sitting by the window, brushing her hair, and he is nodding off on the bed, one lazy thought on his mind. He sleepily wonders if one can actually fall asleep in a dream. And then he opens one eye and catches her looking at him lovingly. No other word but 'ogling' comes to mind. He knows he's right in his evaluation, since she blushes furiously. He wiggles his eyebrows, and she is even redder in the face. And then she throws the brush aside and jumps on the bed, on top of him. She weighs nothing, and he readily grabs the pert buttock._

 _She's peppering his face with little kisses, and her curls are tickling his neck and ears._

" _Ooph, I just forget myself around you..." she murmurs, between the feathery busses raining on his face. He smiles and squints in pleasure. "You are so... dashing… And this nose… Ooph! So, so enticing... How can a girl say 'no' to you?" He guffaws, and catches her mouth._

* * *

"What are you hoping to achieve by it, my lord?" Her tone is venomous, cruel, and he gives her a sad smile.

"Nothing, my lady. I just need to know… I have had years of these dreams, I need to know."

"Know what? Whether I measure up to them?" she almost hisses, and he chuckles joylessly.

"Only you could worry about competing with your dream counterpart, Wren." She flares her nostrils, clearly not appreciating his jest. "Give me the answer, Wren. You have the right to refuse me. But I'm begging you to agree."

It is not a ploy, and he has little hope she'd agree. He just craves her lips, either to keep the memories alive - he hasn't had any dreams since the day he pulled her out of the swamp - or perhaps he wants to distinguish the dreams completely. He wants to make her alive and real in his mind, but he also wants to purge the images he carried with him all his life. He now knows she's not going to come, and she will never be his. The woman he loves doesn't exist.

She frowns, and he is certain she'll leave now, but she steps ahead and her hands lie on his shoulders. He's only an inch taller than her. She leans in, he's watching her face. He always enjoyed watching her in that short instant before their lips met. She'd always close her eyes, and he'd cheat and peek - at the long black lashes, at the bright freckles peppering the delicate bridge of her nose, at the delicate, almost translucent eyelids.

She doesn't close her eyes, and he does, before her lips touch his, to savour her, to remember, and to forget. To give up his dream.

Fire flares in his heart, his mind, his body. He doesn't expect it, and he's terrified, and her lips are soft and warm, and his head swims. He has even prepared himself for a disappointment, he isn't ready for the hunger, and fever, and greed that wakes up in him.

He's still controlling it, but then she steps even closer, and her arms slowly wrap around his neck, and he grabs her, but immediately releases, and then his palms cautiously lie on her shoulders.

He doesn't compare. He can't remember anything from his dreams. Neither the flavour, nor the smell, not the skin, and whether the shoulders are thinner or more robust. He doesn't know, and he doesn't care.

She sighs in his mouth, and presses into him tighter. He pulls her closer, although there's no room between them. She makes a quiet moan like noise, and he loses control.

His arms are wrapped around her now, the kiss is deeper and deeper, it's heating up, some strange current running through him, like a lighting, or molten gold, and she's answering him with equal fervour, and he tangles one hand in her hair. Her fingers curl, gathering a handful of his tunic on his shoulder, and another hand flies up and cups his jaw. They are moving faster and hungrier with every moment, and then her teeth scrape at his. He nips at her bottom lip, and she presses her hips into his. It's his undoing, and he bends, and wraps his arms around her hips, and picks her up, and now she's above him, her hair curtaining around them, and then her legs go round his waist. She's devouring his mouth, raspy moans fall from her lips, and he growls.

He doesn't dare to change anything in what's transpiring, but her pale collarbones are tempting him, and the tender fragrant skin in the opening of her dress, and everything else he wants to learn the taste of. And then she tears her mouth off his lips, and he's terrified.

She'd always been the prudent one, the practical, the more composed. He could always imagine that if ever they were to be together, she'd be the stabilising force in his life, the one making him stop and make wise decisions, and he is terrified she'll stop the two of them now. It would be wise.

"Come to the inn tonight," she rasps out. "Maiar help me, I don't know what this is… But come..."

Her face is impossibly close, and he chokes out, "You'll come back to your senses by then... You'll change your mind."

"You are right," she readily agrees. "Then take me now."

* * *

 **To be continued...**

* * *

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 **My blog: kolmakov dot ca**

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{ _Blind Carnival_ initially written here & _Ani_ my first independent fantasy story}

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* * *

 **My book on Amazon!**

 **CONVINCE ME THE WINTER IS OVER**

 **{my first novel**

 **inspired by the story initially written here}**

 **Available on Amazon in Kindle and Paper!**

* * *

 ** _Summary:_**

 _Renee Miller is a reclusive web designer who, after several hours of delirium from flu, wakes up to find a stranger in boxer briefs standing in her bathroom._

 _John is an archaeologist who finds himself stuck in a stranger's flat in a snowstorm._

 _Frozen in her neat and clean world of highly functional anxieties and her history of childhood trauma, Renee is perhaps the worst possible host for her flatmate's boyfriend's colleague. Yet, while the fervent gush of life that is John Greaves disrupts her carefully guarded existence, Renee finds herself gradually yearning for more._

 _Is John the first breath of Spring in her frigid world?_


	6. Truth and Goodbyes

"Wren, what is it for you?" he rasped out, searching her eyes. She frowned. "What is this offer for you?"

"What does it matter?" she answered harshly, and once again he saw the woman he knew nothing about. The line of lips was stern, and small wrinkles ran in the corners of eyes. Thorin just couldn't stop noticing the scar on her temple, and the bitter lines, and the tired, as if dull eyes.

"How many men have you known, Wren?"

"Quite enough," she spat, and jerked her chin up. "Many. Amrod was not the first one. I'm experienced."

"You are lying," he exhaled, and she pushed away from him, and turned away from him. "I know you, Wren of Enedwaith, you are a poor liar..."

"You do not know me!" she suddenly screamed, and swirled, and her burning eyes made him wince away. "I am not her! Not the perfect woman you imagined for yourself. I am not the healer of Dale, perfect, soft, kind Wren of Enedwaith!" Her voice broke into shriek, and each of her words was more and more hateful and derisive. "I am not the gentle dove! I am not the woman who will roll with you in soft sheets and whisper loving nonsense to you! No tickling, and kissing, and oaken bedposts! Take what I'm offering, or I'm leaving!"

His heart thrashed, pain blooming between ribs, and he clenched his fists.

"How do you know of the bed?" His voice sounded choked. Her eyes widened, and she took a step back, realising her mistake.

"Your sister told me..." she whispered.

"Don't lie to me!" he roared, and stepped ahead and grabbed her upper arm. She hissed in pain, but it didn't stop him. He gave her a shake, and she narrowed her eyes. He saw the movement of her left hand, to the belt, where a dagger was clasped. He was too far gone to care.

"I never told Dis about the bed! How do you know of it?!" Her fingers closed around the hilt, and her hand flew up, in a trained, swift movement. He noted the excellent skill, but she hesitated. The fracture of the second gave him a chance to catch his wrist, and he squeezed, inflicting pain, and after a second, her face scrunched, and the dagger fell on the floor with a loud clank.

"Tell me!" he snarled into her face, and she returned the expression.

"You want to know where I saw the bed?! In my dreams! Every night since you pulled me out of that bog!" Her voice was furious, as if she was accusing him, and he released him. She didn't step back, but instead she slapped him across his face. "Why didn't you let me die?! It would have been easier. For me and for Mira! Just like falling asleep!" He stood, watching her face, and tears ran her cheeks, and then she swayed. He didn't support her. Wren of Enedwaith couldn't have ever wished to die. And more so, she'd never have wished such fate upon her child. She'd fought. She'd fought for him, with him, for the children... The promise of the children had brought him back after the Battle for Erebor. There, in the healer's tent, she had promised him...

"What will now become of me?" she looked into his eyes, the same cold hatred splashing in the fire opal irises. "And more importantly, what is to become of her? She is a bastard, in a family who will never accept her. My mother has been hinting to me on either finding a husband, or a service. And how will she live? What will she do when she becomes a woman? A winegirl? A maid? Or a wench in a brothel?"

She covered her face with her hands, and then some strange noise came from behind them. He thought it a sob, but then he realised it was a laughter. Mad, bitter, venomous laughter. She dropped her hands and met his eyes again.

"It has been moons, Thorin, son of Thrain. I know a lot about you now." The ice in her eyes was scorching, she was preparing the mortal blow, and he braced himself. "You've been waiting for your gentle flower of the North? You little bird? Your heart, your _kurdu_?" Each word was more painful than a blow by the Orc blade that felled him in the Battle in the Erebor Valley. "She is not here. And she never will be. I offered you the best you can have in this situation. A body that looks like hers." The red mouth twisted in a sarcastic grimace, and he took a stumbling step backwards.

"Why are you doing it? You are trying to wound me, I can see it. But why?" He searched her face, and she met his look with a direct stare.

"You need to understand - I am not her. And never will be. And there will be no happily ever after. You will not school me into your perfect woman. I'm not going to change. I will not let anyone train me like a dog and make me serve!" She exhaled and started straightening her clothes they rumpled in their frenzy. He asked himself, whether it had been just his frenzy then, since she had pretended, she did not feel the same, she was not the same...

And then he remembered the body pressed into him, and the strong hands, much rougher than the ones he had felt on his skin for all those years, and these new caresses, somewhat clumsy and inexperienced, but ardent, and like a bright flash in his mind he saw the woman behind the mask.

"What is it that you are hiding, Wren?" he asked softly, and her fingers on the clasps of her travelling coat stilled. "You are hurting me, pushing me away, and you are doing it exceptionally well. You indeed had moons, you saw what I had seen. So you are presenting me with the woman who would be anything but similar to what you think I expect from you. Lecherous, cruel, cold... You do not want to seem pure, or loving, or kind..."

"I am neither of these things," she threw in his face, flaring her nostrils.

"Perhaps. But why do you think I expect you to be either of them? I am no dimwit, Wren of Ithilien. I can see you are not my dream. But do you know what I had seen in my dreams all these years?" He kept his voice calm and warm, and she threw him a cautious look. He sighed and slightly shook his head. "One night. It has always been one night, the same one every time. First, it was luscious fantasy of a youngling..." He chuckled joylessly. "All tickling, and kissing, just like you said. Then I needed to share my loss. My people had lost our home, our kin, brothers, fathers, grandfathers... We lived in exile, and I was to rule them. I needed someone to tell me I could, that I was worthy, that I was able... So in my dreams I saw consolement. And now I am old, and seasoned, and my body aches, and I do not sleep well..."

"I do not care..." She wanted to sound haughty, but her voice wavered. He smiled to her sadly.

"Why would you? You do not know me. What you saw in your dreams... I doubt it's anything but the echo of my dreams. And I am sorry..." He suddenly felt tired, and he stepped aside, and looked at the bench.

"May I?" He was taught to never sit in the presence of a woman on her feet. She nodded, her lips still pressed tightly. He thanked her and heavily sat down.

"I do not know what you saw in your dreams, Wren," he repeated solemnly. "If it was that night of joy, and tenderness, and love, then know that even I do not believe in it anymore. But you also have to know one thing." He gave her a direct earnest look. "I never have believed in it. I always knew that what I saw there, in that bedroom, was nothing but a shadow... Or a glimpse... But I never expected you..." He stumbled over his words and shook his head. "Forgive me, I did not mean to say 'you.' I meant that I never expected a woman to appear in my life and to match what I saw. I was just hoping it would be a sign."

"Did you expect your dreams to be the first taste of a dish you'd be enjoying in your dotage, my lord?" There was still spite in her voice, and he tilted his head and gave her a soft look.

"Do not try to anger me, Wren. I have no strength left for it. I'm more than two hundred years old. All I meant is that I was given in my dreams what I needed then. I was never too naive to expect the same in my waken state. I have never expected you to show up and provide me with the same. You are your own life, your own do not owe me anything. You just look like my dream."

She stood in front of him, the face still schooled in a cold mask, but then he saw her hands tremble, and she suddenly swayed again. This time he stretched his hand to support her. To his surprise, she leaned onto his forearm, and made a step forwards, and lowered herself on the bench near him.

"So, we were both robbed of it... Shown the happiness in our dreams, only to see it all die in flames... And now there are only ashes... And death..." Her voice was growing quieter and quieter. "Nothing but death."

"You have a daughter, Wren. You have the future." He saw the corners of her lips droop even more mournfully. "You can still marry. You are young. And a man will surely accept your child, and give her his name, and..."

"No one will take me." Her voice was hardly audible, and he looked at her frowning, not understanding. "We were not to live, Mira and I. There was a lot of blood, so much blood..." She sharply grew pale, and her lips shook. "It broke something in my body. Because I carried her through the fight, and through his death, and when it was time, something broke in me... I couldn't walk for two moons... And she is strange. I knew nothing of babes... When she was born, I just couldn't understand..." She hid her face in her palms, and her shoulders were trembling. "I don't know if you are familiar with children..."

"I brought up two nephews..." Thorin was surprised his voice obeyed him.

"Then you know what they are like. But she isn't. She isn't... like others. She doesn't cry. Ever... She just lies there, in that cot... I don't even know if she hears me, or sees me... Sometimes I get up at night and watch her, to make sure she is breathing..." She sobbed, and looked at him. No anger was left in her irises, just pain, and despair, and some sort of open, childlike disbelief. "Why did it happen? Why?.. I do not understand. What have I done? What is my crime? I loved him, and was to be his wife, and life was simple, and... And then just in an instant it was gone..."

"It wasn't your fault." The words fell off Thorin's lips without his will, and he saw defences go up in her eyes again. She was surely intending to rebuke him, for presumptuousness, for telling her what she was to think, and for judgement where he had no place, but then her face softened, and she lowered her eyes onto her hands, locked on her lap.

They sat in silence.

"I will never have any more children," she spoke in a hollow voice. He jerked, and forced himself to sit still, without turning to her, without scaring away the moment of openness. "Everything inside me... all broken. I will not be able. No one would want a barren wife. With a sick bastard on her arms, for good measure." She hid behind her bitter sarcasm again.

"Will you serve now? You were a wine girl before..." he asked, wondering if she would feel inclined to be honest with him. She chewed at her bottom lip, probably pondering the same question.

"I will not. I can not wield a sword anymore. Whatever broke in my back, it healed, but there is pain. I cannot travel for long, and cannot ride a horse. I am hoping my mother would allow me to stay in the family trade. I am good with languages, but bad with numbers. I was more of use on the road, but I can still help around the trade house."

He knew she didn't believe it herself. Everything inside him screamed to offer her help, all of it, all of his gold, all of Erebor. Even if she was not his dream, she was... simply put... Wren. But he knew she wouldn't accept one coin. Neither of them would. The one in his dreams would refuse softly, the one sitting near him on the bench would run and never speak to him again.

"Thank you for listening, my lord." There was regret and embarrassment in her tone now, and he'd expected them. She shifted and rose, he noted the stiffness of movement. She gave him a small bow, he nodded without turning or looking at her. "And forgive me..." He remembered how easy and sincere the apologies he had heard in his dreams had always been. She had always been the first to admit her fault, to blame herself for their misunderstandings. This one as much as forced the words out of her mouth.

Thorin threw a short look at her, hiding all and every emotion raging in him.

"Apology accepted. And I am sorry for all the pain you are enduring, my lady."

She nodded and turned away from him.

He watched her narrow back, in a travelling coat, long wide skirts peeking from under it. He shortly wondered when exactly the decision had come to him. When was it - that moment when he realised that he didn't want the soft, kind, loving Wren of Enedwaith to kiss his lips, and press her body into his at night, and gentle hands of a healer to run his skin? When did he realise that he wanted this one - prickly, bitter, lost, and pained - this Wren?

Thorin, son of Thrain, was the Heir of Durin and the King Under the Mountain. Once a decision was made, all he felt was relief. Now he knew what to do.

"Goodbye, my lord," she whispered, and quickly left the balcony.

"Mukhuh mabaddakhi ya bunmû Mahal". _May we meet again with the grace of Mahal._ Thorin's voice rang in the empty balcony, and he leaned back onto the wall. He needed to think.

 _ **To be continued...**_

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 **My blog: kolmakov dot ca**

{two romance webserials, both inspired by my writing here}

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{ _Blind Carnival_ initially written here & _Ani_ my first independent fantasy story}

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 **My book on Amazon!**

 **CONVINCE ME THE WINTER IS OVER**

 **{my first novel**

 **inspired by the story initially written here}**

 **Available on Amazon in Kindle and Paper!**

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 ** _Summary:_**

 _Renee Miller is a reclusive web designer who, after several hours of delirium from flu, wakes up to find a stranger in boxer briefs standing in her bathroom._

 _John is an archaeologist who finds himself stuck in a stranger's flat in a snowstorm._

 _Frozen in her neat and clean world of highly functional anxieties and her history of childhood trauma, Renee is perhaps the worst possible host for her flatmate's boyfriend's colleague. Yet, while the fervent gush of life that is John Greaves disrupts her carefully guarded existence, Renee finds herself gradually yearning for more._

 _Is John the first breath of Spring in her frigid world?_


	7. Nowhere to Go

**Nothing but angst today. Because Paris.**

* * *

Three moons later Thorin was working in his study, when a courtier arrived and announced that a woman of Men was asking for an audience with the King. The courtier hurriedly explained that they wouldn't have let her in, had one of them not seen her visiting before, in the company of her family, and having been invited to share a meal with the King. The courtier also assured the King they hadn't invited the woman further than the visitor's parlour. Also, the woman was told to have a large basket with her, and the courtier suspected there was a babe in it, although no sounds came from it.

Thorin threw the quill on the table and rushed through the passages, leaving the shocked Dwarf behind him, and the door to the study ajar.

She was thinned, even more than when he had seen her last. She also looked sickly, purple shadows lay under her eyes. Her dress, although clearly cared for, looked worn down, and the hem of the long skirt was dirty. Her cloak was not warm enough for the snowy January weather raging outside, shaking the mountain, winds hollering in the vent shafts. He quickly noted the unhealthy tinge to her skin, short broken nails, some sort of a feverish gleam in her eyes.

She rose from the bench she was sitting on, and he noted even more stiffness to her movement.

"Good evening, my lady." He kept his tone even, and then he bestowed her with a small bow, which she returned awkwardly.

The courtier was right. The large basket was clearly made into a cot for a child, and Thorin quickly counted in his head. Her daughter would be eleven moons old. He knew little of babes of Men, but he was under the impression that the basket should be too small for an infant of such age.

The redhead stood in front of him, and he saw the white knuckles of her tightly fisted hands. Even with her remarkable composure, she couldn't hide the tremours that ran through her body. He wondered whether it was cold, sickness, or nerves.

"Could I be of assistance to you, my lady?" Thorin asked softly, and her eyes flew up to his face. It took all his will not to wince away from her. Or not to rush to her. Her unusual slanted eyes were bright green, almost mad, and so much pain and despair splashed in them, that he wondered how she was still standing.

"Yes, my lord," she whispered, and he saw her drew a sharp breath in. "That is what I came here for. I came begging for help. I have no one else to go to..."

And then he saw it all, without as much as a word from her. Days without proper nutrition and sleep, cold, probably lung fever, the pains in her back almost intolerable, and most of all the debilitating terror for the safety of her child...

Thorin found it almost ironic. He would give her anything, everything, all he had, and if she asked for more, he'd lay his life for anything she needed, or wanted, or had a whim for. And at the same time, were he to offer her anything, were he to speak carelessly now, she'd probably run.

"Please, sit, my lady. Let us talk." He spoke calmly and without betraying any emotions, and she nodded, and sat heavily back on the bench. He took a seat on the other end, and encouraged her to talk with a small nod.

Her fingers moved, in not quite a wriggle, but more of a nervous twitch. She was still keeping herself under control. He wondered what an immense effort of will it demanded.

"A moon ago I was asked to leave my parents home. Their trade has been suffering from their association with me, and they disowned me. I had some silver saved, but I ran out of it eight days ago. I know no one in the city..." She was talking in an even tone, as if retelling events that happened to someone else, but then suddenly her face grew even wanner, and she took a sharp breath in, pressing her hand to her chest. The veins on the thin hands were bright blue, under dried, cracked skin.

"I didn't find any service. I have a child that requires constant care, and the pain in my back doesn't allow me many hours of work a day..." She was staring at her hands on her lap, and then she pronounced slowly without lifting her eyes, in the same even detached tone, "I have only one choice now..."

Thorin kept silent, listening to her, and suddenly some sharp crack like sound rang in the room. She whipped her head and looked at him. He was staring in shock at the handle of the bench he apparently snapped. He placed it near his thigh on the bench, and took a calming breath in.

"And that choice, I presume, is a... brothel." He stumbled over the last word. The immorality of the life in the cities of Men was well known to the Khazad, and Thorin felt nauseating disgust rise in him.

She nodded, and he sank nails into his palm: to remind himself that he couldn't throw a rage fit in front of her, that he needs to breathe, that it was not his fault, and not her fault, and that... He didn't even know what to think at that moment, and his eyes roamed her. Had she already?.. Had she allowed someone?.. He couldn't finish a single of these thoughts in his head, each time terrified of a sheer glimpse into the possibility of it. And then he scolded himself. Who was he to judge her? And there was no 'her allowing' anyone anything. She simply had no other choice.

He looked at her again. Her eyes now seemed dull, lifeless, and her whole body looked listless.

He needed to choose his words wisely.

"I am willing to help you as much as you need, my lady."

She sat quietly for a few moments, without a word, or a movement, and he was almost ready to repeat his words, when he saw a drop fall on her skirt. Another one followed. She didn't lift a hand to wipe the tears.

"What do you want in return?" she whispered, and he understood he was reaching the end of his endurance.

"Nothing. I will help you, my lady..." He made an effort to not address her by her name, not to abuse their familiarity, to allow her the shreds of dignity she had had left. "And I do not need anything in return."

"I do not want to stay in Dale, I want to leave," she whispered, and two more heavy drops fell on her skirts. "The city stinks, there is rot and filth in every pore, and every crack... I need to leave..."

"I will give you gold and silver, and guards if you require them. You probably should agree, since the roads..."

"Why?" she suddenly asked loudly, and lifted her face, with streaks of tears on her pale cheeks and sunken eyes. "I had no hope you would... I do not understand..."

"If you didn't expect me to help, why did you come?" he asked confused, and she pressed her lips, and he saw her throat bob in a nervous gulp. "Wren?" The terrifying understanding was dawning on him. "Did you think I would pay you for...?"

"At least it would be just one man!" she cried out, a shadow of the old rebelliousness splashing in her eyes, and he suddenly felt sharp hatred flood his senses. She thought he would brutalise her body, and she was willing to give it to him! And probably for a mere handful of silver! How could she?! How could she think so low of him? And of herself?!

He turned away from her, to hide the face distorted in rage and disgust, and they sat in silence.

"I will pay for your travels wherever you want to go, and I will give you plenty more to live in prosperity there," he spoke in a hollow voice.

He expected her to ask 'why' again, but then he realised she wouldn't risk this chance. He turned and saw that indeed she was sitting, holding her breath, her eyes intently focused on him. A shudder would run through her body from time to time, and he wondered whether she was running a fever. Her lips were bright red, and he thought he could see a thin sheath of sweat on her forehead. She certainly couldn't travel in this state, but he had no right to tell her not to.

He suddenly felt dizzy, his head swam, and he just wanted this nightmare to end. He rose on his feet, and she jumped up as well.

"And your daughter? Are you taking her with you?" He didn't know why he was asking. She threw a look at the basket.

"Yes, I will need to hire a wet nurse though. And that is expensive... That's why my silver was gone so quickly..." she was mumbling, giving a grave look to the improvised cot, and he stared at her in astonishment.

Who was this woman? Surely, not Wren. Wren would not care for silver, or anything else for that matter, when it came to her children. He wondered if this woman was weighing in her head the silver she'd spend on travel expenses versus giving up her child, when a small noise came from the basket.

Stopping mid word, she walked up to the basket, moved a cloth covering it, and leaned in to the child. Thorin couldn't see much, just some tattered pieces of fabric.

And then, as if without his will, he stepped to the basket and looked. The child was small, thin, and unquestionably... hers. The girl had a crown of the same orange curls on her head, the same slanted eyes, turn up nose, even the mouth was wide and bright red, just like her mother's. The face was beautiful, though, unlike Wren's, there was some sort of delicate, otherworldly allure to it, and Thorin bent down and looked closer, unable to tear his eyes off the mesmerising alluring features.

And suddenly the dark green eyes shifted, and the babe looked directly at him. The babe studied him with strange for a child sharpness, and then their eyes met. The red lips twitched, and a soft cooing noise fell off them.

Thorin heard some strange strangled noise to his right, and he looked to see Wren stand, her hands pressed to her throat, her eyes widened in shock. Her lips were trembling, tears running down her cheeks.

"Wren, what?.." he asked, suddenly terrified for her, and she pointed at the babe.

"She has never… never done it... even with me... Do it again," she suddenly demanded, and stepped to him, and grabbed his sleeve pulling him to the basket. "Do it again! Look at her! Talk to her!" The fingers of her other hand clasped on his forearm like claws of a prey bird, nails sinking into him though the doublet. Her face was agitated, almost mad, but it was the most expressive he'd ever seen her.

He pulled his arm out of her hand and scooted into front of the basket. The babe had seemingly lost interest in him by then. He remembered what Wren had said to him three moons ago, how the child never cried, and it was unclear whether she heard or saw anything. Her eyes indeed seemed unfocused now, and he called for her softly, "Mira... Mira, look at me..."

Nothing changed, and the only sound in the room was sharp irregular breaths Wren was taking.

"Mira..." the King tried again, and then in some strange strike of inspiration he spoke in Khuzdul, "Biraihbir, nadan." _Listen to me, child._

The child blinked, and slowly the eyes slid, from the empty wall that she probably hadn't been actually looking at, and the two pairs of eyes met.

"Hello, Mira..." The King stretched his hand and gently stroked the tender cheek with the tip of his index finger. "Hello, little flame..."

A pause hung, Wren was holding her breath now, and the King waited. And then the little mouth folded, forming a ring of red lips, and another soft cooing noise came.

Wren fell on her knees, and her hands grasped the King's forearm, with astonishing force he hadn't expected from her overtaxed body.

"Let me stay..." she begged, feverish eyes roaming his face. "I'm begging you, let me stay in Erebor. I will do anything you ask of me. I'll scrub floors, I'll work in mines, I... I will do anything... Just let me stay, so you can come and talk to her sometimes..." She was sobbing, but this time her eyes remained dry. Heaves shook her body, and she slid on the floor, to his feet. "Anything you ask of me... Just come and see her sometimes, talk to her..."

He watched in terror how her dry hands fisted on the stone floor of the parlour, her orange curls scattered, tangled, and dusty, and he rushed to her, and picked her up to her feet, and pressed her to himself.

She slumped, another violent shudder ran through her, and he saw her now white lips move.

"I'm begging you... Let me stay..."

"You can stay," he as much as screamed into her face. "Wren, do you hear me? You can stay, and I will take care of your child You have my word."

Her eyes rolled back, and she sagged in his arms. He picked her up, like a ragdoll, and called for a courtier. Several Dwarves rushed into the room, and the King barked orders. One of the courtier picked up the basket, and Wren weakly protested.

"It is alright, Wren, you will be together," the King reassured her, in the same soft voice he had used with the babe, and both the woman and the child were carried into the Inner Halls. A room was hastily prepared for them, and Thorin gently placed Wren on a large bed. She stirred, searching for her daughter with her eyes. The basket was on the floor near the bed, and Thorin leaned in and picked up the child, without thinking. Some old memories resurfaced, his hands and arms habitually accommodating the small body, and he lifted the girl. She seemingly weighed nothing, and he noticed that she looked healthy and well-fed, unlike her mother.

"Give her to me," Wren rasped out, all politeness forgotten, and Thorin stepped closer and passed the child to her mother. Wren pressed her into herself, immediately bliss splashing onto her features. Her eyes roamed the little face, and the most loving of smiles bloomed on her lips.

"I will send a maid to you, Wren. Ask for anything you need."

She lifted her face and looked at him. He saw the brows draw in a frown, and he knew she was intending to ask for the price of his kindness. Or perhaps not. He now could see she would agree to any size and form of payment for her stay in Erebor.

"I will send for you in three days," he said firmly, not allowing her to speak. "I repeat, ask for anything you need. Everything will be given to you. Ad in three days, when both of you have more strength, I will see you, and we will discuss what service you can do in Erebor."

She closed her mouth she'd opened to speak, gave it a thought, and then nodded. Thorin nodded as well, and marched to the door. When he was closing it behind him, he saw Wren cradle the girl in her arms, smiling into her face, and murmuring some tender nonsense.

 _ **To be continued...**_

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 ****PLEASE, CONSIDER SUPPORTING THE AUTHOR ON DOT COM!****

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 **My blog: kolmakov dot ca**

{two romance webserials, both inspired by my writing here}

 **Facebook: Katya Kolmakov (Writer's page)**

 **JukePop: Katya Kolmakov**

{ _Blind Carnival_ initially written here & _Ani_ my first independent fantasy story}

 **Twitter: katyakolmakov**

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 **My book on Amazon!**

 **CONVINCE ME THE WINTER IS OVER**

 **{my first novel**

 **inspired by the story initially written here}**

 **Available on Amazon in Kindle and Paper!**

* * *

 ** _Summary:_**

 _Renee Miller is a reclusive web designer who, after several hours of delirium from flu, wakes up to find a stranger in boxer briefs standing in her bathroom._

 _John is an archaeologist who finds himself stuck in a stranger's flat in a snowstorm._

 _Frozen in her neat and clean world of highly functional anxieties and her history of childhood trauma, Renee is perhaps the worst possible host for her flatmate's boyfriend's colleague. Yet, while the fervent gush of life that is John Greaves disrupts her carefully guarded existence, Renee finds herself gradually yearning for more._

 _Is John the first breath of Spring in her frigid world?_


	8. Come In From the Cold

**Sometimes one just needs to be very sick, and very tired to write. I guess it's just that kind of a story. This one is penultimate, and the last one is posted as well. Don't miss it, if you are interested, of course.**

* * *

In the evening Dis came to his study, and informed him that the woman had fallen ill. Just as he assumed, she had been burning when she came to him, from the lung fever, and malnutrition, and once she was put in a warm room, she became overwhelmed by her sickness. The child, according to the Princess, was well-fed, and healthy, and even accepted a Dwarven wet nurse, so there was no need to send for a woman of Men. Thorin, who had not even considered this question, nodded, and asked whether the woman's life was in danger. Dis made an assumption that with proper care, the red haired woman would recover soon. Thorin nodded again.

"What sort of people are they?" Dis suddenly exclaimed, and clapped her palm to her knee in indignation. "She is like a broken toy. Not a single drop of strength left in her. The healers said everything inside has been crashed and fractured, and left without care after the childbirth. It is a wonder she can stand and walk, the back is ruined. And then she worked in the town laundries, hands in cold water for hours. Who treats a woman like that? What sort of animals are the Men of Dale? And the poor child... Her mother clearly tried to take the best care of her, but without aid and advice from elders, how does one handle a child like that? I had been blessed with healthy sons, and still I needed guidance. The maids said the girl was bundled the wrong way. Has no one shown the mother how to do it?" Dis muttered more angry words in Khuzdul, and Thorin took a careful breath in. "What of her family, nadad?" Dis asked, but judging by her tone she held little hope to hear anything good.

"They threw her out." It pained Thorin to even speak of it. The memory of a happy, laughing woman from his dreams came, and he pushed it away. That was never to come.

Or perhaps it were, he thought. If he were smart and careful, he could make so that this one would learn to smile.

* * *

He was invited to see her fifteen days later. Her fever had raged, and then she had been weak, and Dis delicately suggested he gave the redhead a bit more time to recover. Thorin listened, he felt he knew not the best ways in this situation. Relying on Dis' judgement had always shown wise, especially in the matters of emotional kind.

Wren sat by the window, her eyes intent on the door, when he came in. She looked pale, and was bundled in several shawls, over a simple green dress. She was visibly nervous, small ticks running her features. Either the lips would twitch, or she'd blink frantically.

He stopped by the door, not wishing to impose, and cause her discomfort. Such was the advice of his sister. The woman continued watching him. She reminded him of a terrified small animal in woods.

"Could I come in, my lady?" Again, by Dis' instructions, he kept his voice soft. A small nod followed.

He approached her and sat on a bench, quite at a distance from her.

"I don't know how to thank you..." He forgot the voice, how different it was from the melodic lilt in his dreams. Ithilien accent was thick in it, vowels curt, consonants sharp. "I am… in your debt… and we talked when I just arrived that I am willing to take a vocation… and… I am prepared to do anything..." She tangled in her own words, and he saw her hands move under the covers.

"I am certain we can find an occupation for you, in Erebor. The city is growing, and is being renovated; artisans of all trades are needed here." He had fifteen days to prepare smooth lines, and slightly distorted truths - to accommodate her, to make her calm, to alleviate her unease.

"I have little skills," she pronounced, her voice agitated, as if warning him. "I was a decent fighter, but now I am in too much pain. I can read and write, but books were rarely available for me." And then her face distorted, and he saw her lips tremble. "I am no healer, of course..."

He remembered her scream at him in rage four moons ago.

 _I am not her! Not the perfect woman you imagined for yourself! The perfect, soft, kind Wren of Enedwaith! I will never change! I will not let anyone train me like a dog and make me serve!_

She was ready now, he thought of a sudden. To train, and to serve. Anything for her daughter.

"There are plenty of healers in Erebor," he dismissed lightly, as if not understanding her words. "I doubt they need any more apprentices. It is an honourable, and a well paid vocation, especially in the times of peace. Many younglings want it. You know trade of Men though, you travelled, and helped around in your family house. That would be beneficial. The Khazad have trouble understanding the Men of Dale sometimes. Another negotiator would be a blessing."

Thorin praised himself for the natural tone, and the calm expression he kept on his face. Her slanted, greenish brown eyes roamed his features, scrutinising. He kept his posture relaxed.

"Why are you doing this?" she whispered, and he was prepared for this question as well.

He had spent five days polishing every word, every intonation for what he would say now. He once even practised before the mirror. He knew she'd hear a false note. The Wren he thought he knew, or not - he knew how apt she was in sensing deceit.

"Wren," he softly said, and gave her a small sad smile. "Mahal the Maker brought us together. I do not know his purpose, and in all honesty, I have trouble seeing how and why our destinies were to intertwine, but I will not argue the Maker's will. I was given my dreams, to recognise you, and to save your life on the bogs. The dreams then passed to you, perhaps to give you just a bit more trust in me, so that you came for me in the times of need." He sighed, just as he thought a man in melancholy, if his heart were full of acceptance, would sigh, and finished his utter, shameless lie. "I have given up my dreams, and you should too, my lady. We will just act the most decent of ways, and try to coexist. Oh, and your daughter of course..." he pronounced, as if absentmindedly, as if just remembering, "I will of course help you in any way I can."

He brushed his hand to his knee, as if finishing a conversation, and preparing to rise and leave, and lifted his eyes at her.

He expected gratitude, and relief.

He had it all planned. She would accept his lie. He would hide the desire, and the tenderness he felt for her. And then he would win her over. Slowly, even if it took years. He knew the Wren from the dreams well. He would search out the similarities, and use them at his advantage. He would learn everything about this one. The prickly, rash, irritable one, with her dry hands, skin cracked, and reddish, with her cautious eyes, and lips pressed in a stern line. And he would make her see that there was no shame in accepting help - and later his love; and he would offer her his whole self. And he would win her, even if it took years. And he would kiss the red lips, and make her smile, and he would teach her to laugh, and forget all cares in the world. And he would press his lips to the scar on her temple, and to the strong slender wrists. And he would finally know what her body felt in his arms.

He didn't expect to see tears run down her cheeks, corners of her lips mournful, bitter lines lying near the corners.

"She told me you would be kind… She told me… that you were the best of men, but I didn't believe her..." Her voice broke, and she dropped her head. The tears ran freely, she didn't wipe them, and two drops fell on the covers she was wrapped in.

"Who?" he asked, not understanding.

"Wren… Your Wren… She came to me in my dreams. After I came to Erebor, two weeks ago, I had none of those dreams you had given me. None of that night anymore… Just some nightmares, but they were probably from the fever. And then she came." She lifted, and he saw excruciating, devastating pain splashing in the irises. "She was so… kind, and patient. She said that she regretted everything that happened to me, and she said she wished she could have taken it all away. She even said she wished she had gone through all this pain instead of me. And I believed her… It is so clear!" A half sob, half barking laugh feel from her lips. "You look at her, and you know how kind she is… How pure, how strong..." A sob burst out of her, and she wiped her nose and her eyes with the sleeve of her dress. "I could never be like her..." She sniffled, and he sat holding his breath. "I used to hate her. I blamed these dreams, and the dreams I had of my life that never was to be… I hated her, and I wanted you to hurt, I wanted to prove to you I wasn't her. But now I see I didn't need to try… I am not her, and never will be… I am the fake, the corrupted one, that was given to you to suffer… Your Maker is cruel! Only a cruel god would do that to a man!"

"Shut up!" He lunged to her, on the bench near her, and pulled her in, wrapping his arms around her, crashing her. "Don't you dare… She never existed! She is nothing but a… phantom! Don't you dare!... Speaking of yourself this way!"

She thrashed, and sobbed, and wailed, and he held her close, tears running down his cheeks as well, angry, and pained, and hot.

"Don't you dare..." He was lost in his words, and then she sagged, and cried, switching to quiet, weak whimpers, a ragdoll in his arms.

"I will take you over any other..." he whispered, and she sniffled loudly again. He expected her to argue, to say he didn't know her, and he frantically searched for the right words to reassure, and to convince, but she didn't speak. He could only hear some small sounds.

She cried the way children cried, with all their being, desperately, and hopelessly. As if their world had fallen apart, and there was no hope left.

"Wren, look at me..." He softly placed his hands on her shoulders, and moved her away. Her head heavily swayed, and he saw red puffy eyes, and pink nose, and twisted lips. "I lied to you. I am helping you because I hope you will stay, and will learn to… tolerate me, and maybe even enjoy… Nay, I'm saying it wrong… I want you to want to stay… Let me give it to you!" He was choking on his own words, struggling with them, drowning in the unnecessary ones, and the wrong ones, and panicking she would misunderstand. Her eyes were still clouded, her face dull after the emotional turmoil, and he rushed ahead. "Let me give you anything you need! But I am not buying you! I just want… I need you to be content!"

"Alright..." she raspily spoke, and he scrutinised her face trying to understand her. "I am here, you can try… You can wait and see if it is what you want..."

"No, Wren. _You_ will stay and see if it is what _you_ want," he pressed on, seeing she didn't understand, didn't hear.

She nodded, weak, and listless, and he pulled her into embrace again. Her body was shuddering, in some nervous tremours, and he stroked the back of her head. The softness of the curls struck him, and he realised that was the first time they touched since the kiss all those moons ago.

He sat, and held her in his arms, his palm running down her curls, and then he realised she was asleep. He carefully picked her up, and carried her into a bedchamber. Once put down, she curled into a small ball, under the covers he pulled over her. Even in her sleep, her face was forlorn.

* * *

He walked into the other room, and stood for a few minutes, gathering his bearing.

In the smaller room, two doors down the passage, he found her daugher in a large, opulently decorated cot, and two maids sitting above it. One of them shook a rattling toy in front of the infant. No sounds came from the babe.

The maids jumped on their feet and bowed to him respectfully. He asked of the child, and while they were talking he stood, looking at the girl. He had noticed the difference right away. There was no spark in the slanted, green eyes, so alike her mother's. The child wouldn't turn to noises, wouldn't make any sounds herself, and then one of the maids picked it up, wrapping her in one of the embroidered blankets.

"A child of Men at this age is to start walking. Some talk even. The Little Treasure doesn't even sit up," one of the maids explained, propping the child in her arms. The red head lay on her shoulder, the green eyes still distant. "She can, she just seems to… not want it, my King."

"Give her to me." Thorin stretched his arms, and the small weightless body was passed to him.

He sat in the nearest armchair, and seated the child on his lap. She remained upright, supported by his hand on her back.

"She is healthy and strong, she just..." Thorin could hear sincere concern in the Dwarven maiden's voice, and he quickly noted that Dis chose them wisely.

And then the girl turned her head and looked at him. And then one small hand was lifted, and small fingers wiggled in the air.

"Mahal help me, it's a miracle!" one of the maids gasped out, and Thorin leaned in, and let the girl touch his face. He wasn't even surprised when a small cooing noise fell off the red lips.

* * *

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romance webserial: _Dr. T Series_

 _Summary:_ Wren Leary, a young biochem student is placed before a choice: Will it be Philip Durinson, the self-assured ball of sunshine and a uni stud, or his cantankerous and mistrusting uncle, John Thorington? The first one is her friend, the second one regrets that night in the tent. Wrennie is in a pickle.

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 **Pinterest: Katya Kolmakov**

 **DevianArt: kkolmakov**

* * *

 **My book on Amazon!**

 **CONVINCE ME THE WINTER IS OVER**

 **{my first novel**

 **inspired by the story initially written here}**

 **Available on Amazon in Kindle and Paper!**

* * *

 ** _Summary:_**

 _Renee Miller is a reclusive web designer who, after several hours of delirium from flu, wakes up to find a stranger in boxer briefs standing in her bathroom._

 _John is an archaeologist who finds himself stuck in a stranger's flat in a snowstorm._

 _Frozen in her neat and clean world of highly functional anxieties and her history of childhood trauma, Renee is perhaps the worst possible host for her flatmate's boyfriend's colleague. Yet, while the fervent gush of life that is John Greaves disrupts her carefully guarded existence, Renee finds herself gradually yearning for more._

 _Is John the first breath of Spring in her frigid world?_


	9. Plain and Simple

**_Four years later…_**

"And I'm telling you, I do not allow that! She is not riding a pony!" Wren's voice shook with rage, and Thorin sighed.

"You can't protect her from every little thing. She is five. For four years we've been doing it your way, but you have to understand, Wren. I can't let you go on treating her like a crystal goblet. At her age Dwarven children train with battle axes."

"At five, they only start to walk!" Wren hissed at him, and he felt irritation rising.

"Do not start your usual sophism, Wren. You're well aware what I meant. She is strong, and she will be watched. It is a small, calm animal, I chose it myself, and she will be..."

"No! I prohibit it!" Wren's voice rang, and she swirled on her heels and marched to the door.

"You can't coddle her all her life. I'm certain, she needs to..." Thorin called after her, only to be interrupted by her sharp furious shout.

"You are not her father! You have no word in it!"

Some white, uncontrollable rage clouded Thorin's mind, and he stepped to her, crossing room in a few swift movements.

"Don't you ever dare saying this! I _am_ her father!"

"No, you are not!" she screamed into his face, and he grabbed her upper arm. She hissed, and jerked in his grasp. "You are… just … You're..."

He could see that even if her desire to argue with him, she couldn't pronounce what was on her mind. And something snapped in him, after four years of walking on eggshells, and not giving anything its proper name.

"What am I?! C'mon, Wren, say it finally!" he growled at her. "What am I to you?" He knew her well by now. She only needed a small push to lose her composure.

"You are my owner! I belong to you! I owe you everything!"

"How dare you..." he snarled, and threw her away from him, almost in disgust.

She barked a sharp bitter laugh. He could see her narrowed eyes, and bared teeth. The view was painfully familiar. All they did for four years was arguing.

As soon as she'd gained her strength, all those years ago, she'd antagonise him every step of the way. As if she wanted him to lose his patience with her… And perhaps, he finally had.

"How dare I what?" she continued sneering. "It is the truth! I do not lie to myself. I am only enjoying a comfortable, careless life, because you're too noble to abuse the power you have over me!"

"Do you want me to stop?" he roared, and she jumped to him, her angry eyes suddenly right in front of his. "I can, Wren. I can forget that the Khazad respect women, and that..." He drew a sharp breath in, some dark thoughts stirring in his mind.

"What? You can't even think of anything! You can do nothing! You never have!" She scoffed and looked him over, her face a hateful mask. "Never! You've never even asked anything from me, in all these years. As if I can offer nothing in return. Any other would demand something to repay for his kindness."

"I am no Man, Wren. I don't need favours for what I thought was the right thing to do!"

"Indeed. You are so noble!" she drew out venomously. "Never asked even for a kiss. Any other would make me bed him when a whim would come, you haven't even touched me since the day I came to Erebor! I am nothing to you! I am a dirty mongrel you picked up on the road, showed kindness to, and then conveniently stuffed into back rooms! Mahal help me, I'd rather you force yourself on me every night, and beat me up, than this coldness!"

By the end of it she was screaming at the top of her lungs, her voice breaking, hysterical, and pained, and then she flailed her arms, ungracefully, and rushed to the next room, the door banging behind her. He heard something fall, and crash there, and then there was silence.

He took a few measured breaths in, and turned to follow her. But then he stopped, still not certain what he would say when he saw her.

She returned herself, and he saw that her hand was bleeding. She had wrapped a cloth around it, but he could see she hardly paid any attention to it. She walked up to him, and stopped a step away, and her face was reserved and calm now.

"Forgive me, I behaved… disgracefully." He met her eyes, and saw sincere regret in them. "I don't know why I did... It was like madness. As if something snapped, after all these years..." She chuckled joylessly. "It is just that..." She exhaled, gathering her thoughts. "It is just every time you do something of the sort, I think of how it could have been if I were different. If I deserved you… If I could be the one you needed... how different our life would have been, and Mira would be indeed your daughter, and I could have been the one you loved..."

Thorin felt his breathing hitch. They had never spoken of love. They had never spoken so openly. He was watching her face in shock.

There was silence in the room, and then he heard a drop fall on the floor. He looked down, and saw a small crimson circle of her blood.

"I broke a cup, I apologise," she spoke quietly, also looking at the red on the floorboards.

"It's nothing," he muttered, and suddenly realised how familiar this exchange was. How many times in these years he would give, and she would thank, and he would say it was nothing; and if something broke, she would apologise, and he would say it mattered not?

Was that what she felt? That everything was his, even when given to her?! To him, the cup was hers, the chambers were hers. Everything he owned was hers. At least, in his mind. What had she just said? _I am nothing to you!_

Did they see it all so differently?! How could he have been so blind?

He lifted his astonished eyes at her. She looked endlessly tired.

"Thorin, let me go, please."

He first saw her red lips move, and only then he heard the words.

"Pardon?"

"Let me go. And tell me to leave, becasue I am not strong enough to go myself. But... I cannot live here anymore. I can't… continue, the way I live now, in terror that a day will come when you change your mind. I know I begged you to let me stay all those years ago, and I am grateful." The last word was so grave and so full of meaning that it almost felt as a weight on his chest. "Words cannot express how I am grateful and indebted to you. You gave my child life." She then smiled to him, tenderly, and so much sorrow was in her every feature, that he stepped to her and lifted a hand. She didn't wince away. "You _are_ her father. Only because of you, she lives, and laughs, and talks, and… And I have no right to ask for anything else, but please, I'm begging you..." Her hands closed around his lifted hand. "Let me go. I cannot go on like that anymore."

"Where will you go? You can't even ride a horse..." His words were helpless, he was already pondering her options, and paths, and how much silver she would need, and she suddenly shifted closer, and pressed her forehead to his.

"Do not think about it… I am not your responsibility. Please… Let me go, and let me release you from this slavery..."

He closed his eyes, and realised he would agree. With the next inhale, he would open his mouth and say goodbye. He wouldn't even argue with her erroneously naming his life a slavery. He had lived these four years, truly lived. Given he had been aching, and craving, restraining himself, but he lived. She had been his life. And now she wanted him to tell he to leave him.

When did it become so tangled? Had it always been like that? It had, his mind supplied the immediate answer. From the start, from their broken beginning. With the dreams, and another woman in them, with the day he had pulled her out of purgid, dark water, and the heart of another's child beat under hers, and with each day that he loved her, and didn't dare to speak of it, with each day - he was losing her. She thought he had been showing noble kindness, he harboured hunger for her body. The more they argued, the further away she moved, the less he felt he could try to make her see they didn't have to.

When did it become so tangled?..

"Mahal forgive me, I just need one..." she suddenly whispered, and he opened his eyes to ask what she meant, when she lunged and pressed her mouth to his.

Greedily. Desperately. Just the way he had been craving to press his to her bright red lips.

Her hands grabbed fistfuls of his hair, and she moaned raspily into his mouth. It sounded like she was in pain - just as he felt; as if she was dying - just as he was; and she devoured his lips, and broke his breath, and clawed at him, and whined. And then she made a strangled noise into his lips - why hadn't he moved? - and jumped from him.

She was gasping for air, as if she'd been punched into the stomach, and her long fingered hands were pressed above her navel.

"Forgive me… Forgive me… I just needed to know it… I couldn't leave without it… Not without at least one kiss… I had to have at least something, I'd die otherwise..."

She was rasping, and then a heave came, and he stepped to her, slowly, finally understanding, and feeling how the world slowly moved, everything finally taking its right place.

"I love you, Wren."

She was still half bent, and muttering something, and then she froze, and he just stood in front of her, not touching, afraid of breaking her, and breaking the moment, and the strange silence around them.

She slowly looked up, and he saw a blue vein beating on her temple.

"What?"

"I love you. I want you to be my wife. I always have, and always will."

"What?"

"I love you. I want you to be my wife."

She was still gaping at him, and he made a small step closer.

"Wren, I love you, and I want you to be my..."

"Stop repeating it!" she shrieked, and straightened up sharply. He saw a bloodstain on her stomach. She had cut her hand, he remembered.

"Wren..."

"What?"

He felt lost. He wasn't sure what she required to finally see what he saw so clearly now.

"I don't understand..." she mumbled.

"I said I loved you…"

"I said I didn't understand, I didn't say I didn't hear!"

He suddenly guffawed. This irked, argumentative tone was all so familiar to him! She was frowning and studying him.

"We need to look at your hand," he offered, assuming the change of the conversation topic could help to shake her out of her stupour.

And then she dashed to him, and hung on his neck, and cried, and laughed, and he pressed her into him, and she was mumbling something, and he would have listened, but he wanted a kiss.

* * *

They were in his bedchamber now, and she was awkwardly pulling her clothes off, her fingers not listening to her, and it was difficult because they were kissing without pause, and one could hardly pull off a tunic, if one's mouth was permanently glued to another pair of lips. And she was hurriedly and clumsily fumbling with the clasps on his doublet, and he lost patience and jerked her bodice, and something probably ripped. And then she jerked out of his hands, and he toppled forward, into suddenly empty space in front of him, but she just turned out to have moved closer to the headboard, and he rushed after her. She was trying to climb under the covers, and he realised he still had one boot on. Something was constantly on the way, and she was making little angry noses, and he thought he never loved her more.

And then they both froze, suddenly bare and pressed into each other. Her skin was cool, and hands were rough, from the sandpaper and the clay she had had in her hands constantly these days, in her pottery apprenticeship, and she was staring at him, her pupils giant, and he rolled her under him. Her eyes were suddenly widened, but then she shook her head, as if chasing some thoughts away, and opened her knees, allowing him in.

There was a moment there when he was suddenly terrified, and uncertain, and as much as he fought, he couldn't push away the thoughts of her back - he knew of excruciating pains she had to endure at least once a moon - and of his own inexperience, and her memories of her former lover… but she cupped his face and smiled to him.

"I am here with you," she whispered, and he exhaled, and kissed her, and after that he wasn't scared anymore.

* * *

He learnt that he knew nothing of physical love, that his dreams had nothing to do with what transpired between two bodies - with the fire, and ache, and tenderness.

At some moment she suddenly started scratching his shoulders, and biting him, and arching into him, and pleading for something desperately, and he couldn't understand, but he seemed to be doing everything right, because she shuddered, and wrapped her arms around his neck, and her demands and raspy cries were replaced by the words of gratitude and love. And he didn't know what it had been, but the next wave came, toppling him over, and now she was soft and warm in his arms, and her eyes were smiling, and trust was splashing in them, and he forgot he'd wanted to understand.

There was artlessness to her movements, she was somewhat clumsy, and bumped her elbow into the wall couple times, and then she whipped her head, and their temples collided, and it was painful, and his ears rang, and he laughed. There was a moment he felt she was suddenly bashful and was hiding her eyes, and he laughed again, and she smiled to him shyly, and her nose twitched in a nervous gesture.

She was Wren of Ithilien, angular, uncertain, and self-conscious, and so very dear. She started crying at some moment, and smiling through tears, and assuring him she was happy, and it was just her body, and too much pleasure, and then she blushed furiously, and he silenced her with a kiss.

And then they lay in the bed, too tired to talk, and he could feel her pulse, and then he realised that it was beating in her stomach, just above the hipbone, and it turned out he had his hand pressed to that spot, and he laughed again, because he hadn't known that women had a pulse beating near their navels. And she hummed questioningly, and then laughed as well. He assumed it was because she had no strength to ask anything. He had to agree, it was indeed funny.

She groaned then, and shifted, accommodating her back. They started moving, still not finding a comfortable position, and then she turned her back to him, and pressed her firm warm buttocks to his hip. He turned his head and stared at bright orange curls.

He wondered if she was falling asleep.

"No, I am not," she suddenly said, and then yawned loudly. He closed his eyes, his mind wandered, thoughts half formed, and lazy, and then he remembered she had cut her hand. And then he remembered why.

"Will you marry me, Wren?" he asked, and she stayed still. He looked at the delicate graceful back, and the small curls on her nape.

"I don't want to be the Queen. Can I just be your mistress?" she asked quietly, and he turned and embraced her, burying his nose into her hair.

"Alright," he agreed grudgingly, and he decided it mattered not, and he didn't want to think about it, not to spoil the mood. He had never been happier in his life, and he wasn't going to change it.

She lay in silence for a moment, and then she carefully turned, and the tip of her nose pressed into his.

"Can we marry in secret, and I will just live like I live now, but we will also..." she trailed away, and blushed.

"Alright," he agreed, and smiled to her widely.

As long as she wanted him, he could live without her wanting his Kingdom. After all she was a potter, and not a Queen. She was studying his face, and he lifted one brow.

She chuckled, a low throaty sound, and then brushed the tips of her fingers to the brow.

"I just… I just want to be with you," she said simply, and he leaned in and quickly kissed her lips.

"You are," he whispered, and she smiled to him.

 **THE END**

* * *

 _ **Afterword:**_

Despite previous injuries, Wren managed to have another child. The parturiency was very difficult, several moons were spent in bed, and pains was sometimes hardly bearable, but she refused to take abortive herbs. The King spent many hours sitting by her bed, reading to her, or simply holding her hand. The delivery was complicated, but their son, Thror, son of Thorin was born healthy and in term.

Mira grew up into a smart, capable woman.

Neither Thorin, nor Wren had ever had any of the dreams again, which they were quite content with.

* * *

**YOU CAN ALSO FIND ME AT**

 **Facebook Writer's Page : Katya Kolmakov**

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 **My blog: kolmakov dot ca**

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Also available on the blog:

romance webserial: _Dr. T Series_

 _Summary:_ Wren Leary, a young biochem student is placed before a choice: Will it be Philip Durinson, the self-assured ball of sunshine and a uni stud, or his cantankerous and mistrusting uncle, John Thorington? The first one is her friend, the second one regrets that night in the tent. Wrennie is in a pickle.

 **JukePop: Katya Kolmakov**

{ _Ani,_ fantasy bildungsroman & _Blind Carnival_ , a parody on romance/erotic novels}

 **Twitter: katyakolmakov**

 **Instagram: kkolmakov**

 **Tumblr: kkolmakov-thorin-ff**

 **Pinterest: Katya Kolmakov**

 **DevianArt: kkolmakov**

* * *

 **My book on Amazon!**

 **CONVINCE ME THE WINTER IS OVER**

 **{my first novel**

 **inspired by the story initially written here}**

 **Available on Amazon in Kindle and Paper!**

* * *

 ** _Summary:_**

 _Renee Miller is a reclusive web designer who, after several hours of delirium from flu, wakes up to find a stranger in boxer briefs standing in her bathroom._

 _John is an archaeologist who finds himself stuck in a stranger's flat in a snowstorm._

 _Frozen in her neat and clean world of highly functional anxieties and her history of childhood trauma, Renee is perhaps the worst possible host for her flatmate's boyfriend's colleague. Yet, while the fervent gush of life that is John Greaves disrupts her carefully guarded existence, Renee finds herself gradually yearning for more._

 _Is John the first breath of Spring in her frigid world?_


End file.
